ROMANCING THE CHICKEN
By Rev. Dr. Larry Delano Coleman
They just don't make chickens like they
used to. No way!
When I was a little boy, chickens
commanded respect! They would chase you around the barn yard to get
it, too. Of course, sometimes, Big Momma or Auntie would wring their
necks. That would even the score, somewhat. But we would still have
to run. Being chased by a headless chicken is no picnic, either!
They would boil the chickens in
scalding water, pluck the feathers, and gut them open. Certain
innards they would keep, like livers and gizzards. The rest would be
thrown away or fed to the dogs.
Some folks, I hear, even ate chicken
feet. Not us. We ate high on the chicken: neck down and legs up!
Chickens had a distinct and savory
scent back in those days. Whether baked, boiled, barbecued, broiled,
stewed, fried, or fricasseed the smell of chicken cooking was a
mouth-watering show-stopper!
You could smell'm frying up and down
the block back then. That smell would break up the cork-ball game we
were playing in the street. “Time to eat. See y'all later!” I'd
say. Momma didn't have to call. She'd let that fried chicken scent do
the calling!
Today, you have to get on top of the
stove to smell the chicken!
In Howard Law School, we had a
contracts case involving the question “What is a chicken?” in our
first semester, first year. That one provoked quite a discussion!
“Guinea fowls” were considered to be chicken by Europeans,
apparently. Not us. Chicken was chicken, period!
Reading Ben Ammi's book recounting his
group's summary departure from Chicago to Israel, I laughed heartily
as he described their Liberian experience with raising chickens.
Those aggressive and big birds frightened, cowed and bewildered these
expatriate, formerly urban dwellers now known as “African Hebrew
Nation of Jerusalem.” Eventually, they asserted dominion over these
chickens, landing a few in the pot, or on the grill, before
permanently relocating to Dodona, Israel, where they yet remain.
In Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania, in 1983, I
met “The Chicken People,” as these former Black Panthers who had
resettled there were known. These fugitives from Wichita, Kansas, and
elsewhere, had become very successful entrepreneurs in that country.
It all began with bartering, buying and selling chickens.
Our romance with chickens is ancient,
fading into the dim mists of time. Booker T. Washington, the “Wizard
of Tuskegee,” tacitly quipped about “chickens gathered by various
and sundry means” in his speeches to an appreciative audience, amid
uproarious laughter. It being well understood that any people set
adrift, after war, without land, money or personal property, to fend
for them selves—would do what they had to do or die! And colored
folks did what they had to do, again and again and again!
Think I'll go fix me some chicken now.
